


10, 15, ∞

by MemeKonHQ (MemeKonYA)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alpha Ushijima Wakatoshi, Dirty Talk, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Knotting, M/M, Omega Oikawa Tooru, Omega Verse, Porn with Feelings, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 17:05:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10835571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemeKonYA/pseuds/MemeKonHQ
Summary: “It’s nesting,” Oikawa tells him the next morning, nose buried in his morning coffee, looking all sorts of disheveled. He spits the word out like it’s personally attacked his ability to set according to his players’ preferences. “I have finals in a week, and we have a big game this weekend and I’mnesting. Unbelievable.”Wakatoshi hums, and munches on his toast.Oikawa glares at him.“You have nothing to say about this?”





	10, 15, ∞

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snkt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snkt/gifts).



> This was written for shiroskeith, for the Fandom Trumps Hate auction.  
> I hope you enjoy this :)

Cushions.

Everywhere he sees, there are cushions.

He frowns at a particularly garish one in confusion. He doesn’t remember owning it.

In the midst of all that, there’s Oikawa, huddled under an avalanche of fabric and stuffing, drooling unattractively on Wakatoshi’s favorite t-shirt. The one they bought together on their first date, with Oikawa still calling him names. 

Oikawa had said it looked decent on him when he tried it on, and that had probably been the nicest thing he’d said all day. Wakatoshi hadn’t even needed a new t-shirt —didn’t even really want one— but he’d felt a rush of something exhilarating and _good_ at the words, and the next thing he’d known they were getting coffee at some trendy place he’d never been to, and he had a shopping bag perched on the chair next to his.

Now it’s worn from use, the cotton thinning in certain places, the colors a little faded. Wakatoshi hadn’t ever considered himself or been accused by others of being sentimental, but he couldn’t help but feeling that the garment was a little more than fabric to him, and that when it inevitably became too tattered to use, he’d be sad to part with it.

Oikawa seems to like it just as much, he thinks, as Oikawa makes some sort of snorting sound, still deeply asleep, and kind of rubs his cheek into the wet spot.

Wakatoshi smiles.

 

“It’s nesting,” Oikawa tells him the next morning, nose buried in his morning coffee, looking all sorts of disheveled. He spits the word out like it’s personally attacked his ability to set according to his players’ preferences. “I have finals in a week, and we have a big game this weekend and I’m _nesting_. Unbelievable.”

Wakatoshi hums, and munches on his toast.

Oikawa glares at him.

“You have nothing to say about this?”

He swallows a bite down and takes a sip of his orange juice.

He looks at Oikawa when he kicks his shin.

“Do you want kids?” Oikawa’s glare intensifies, but his cheeks burn and his knuckles go white from holding his cup with crushing force. They made the right choice buying their crockery sturdy.

“Are you serious? We are _twenty one_ , we still haven’t finished college, we’re gonna go pro—”

“Do you?” He asks again, cutting Oikawa’s tirade before he works himself up into a frenzy. 

Oikawa gapes at him for a few seconds, before frowning and looking down at his cup. He runs a hand through his hair, makes it stick up on all directions.

“I don’t know.” He admits after a while. “I don’t know, okay. I don’t know if it’s me, or if it’s— if it’s the omega in me speaking. _I don’t know_.”

“The omega in you is part of you,” he notes.

Oikawa snorts and picks up a buttered up slice of toast. He gives it a sort of disdainful look before biting into it. He prefers Japanese-style breakfast, Wakatoshi knows, but they don’t often have the time to do that.

“But it’s not _all_ of me. It’s not all I am, and all I want. I want to graduate. I want to be a pro and show everyone what setting is all about. I want to be a member of the national team. I want you to remember not to wash my delicates with your disgusting, sweaty gym clothes.”

“I haven’t done that recently,” Wakatoshi says.

“Just a reminder,” Oikawa tells him. He tears into his toast, and gets butter over his upper lip. He’s a messy eater when he’s at home, comfortable and completely unconcerned about people observing him, judging him. Wakatoshi loves being a part of this, feels a deep sense of contentment down to his bones that Oikawa feels secure in this. It makes his most primal instincts flare up and burn and coil tightly in the pit of his stomach, satisfied in a way that’s him but it’s also _alpha_.

“ _I_ want kids. I want _your_ kids,” he says, and snags the last slice of toast. He cuts it in half and puts the bigger one on Oikawa’s plate. 

Oikawa makes a high pitched sound, and when Wakatoshi looks up at him, he’s hiding his face behind both hands.

“You’re the _worst_ ,” Oikawa says, almost indecipherable. “Truly the worst, oh my God.”

Wakatoshi feels a slight pang in his chest, and he drinks the last of his juice, frowning at the bottom of his glass.

“Oh my God, stop doing that.” Oikawa says then, and traps one of his feet between both of his under the table. “I liked it better when you acted like nothing I said could shake you.”

“You didn’t,” Wakatoshi argues, because he knows that’s a lie. Oikawa had told him so much himself on their third date, a little tipsy from two beers, looking at him from under his long lashes, acting like he was trying to seduce him (Wakatoshi hadn’t needed any of that. They’d both known it, even then). He’d said, “it drives me insane to think I can never impact you the way you impact me”, and Wakatoshi had just stared at him, blinked in confusion. “I chased you around for years,” he’d said. “I followed your team. I followed _you_.”, and Oikawa had narrowed his eyes at him thoughtfully, and finally he’d raised an eyebrow, muttered an enlightened _oh_.

“Ugh, no, I didn’t.” Oikawa relents. “Stop calling me out like this so early in the morning. It’s unbecoming.”

“Sure,” he agrees, and watches Oikawa take the toast Wakatoshi left for him and nibble on it. 

“Maybe,” Oikawa says after awhile. “Not right now.”

Wakatoshi hums, pushes some fruit closer to Oikawa until he rolls his eyes and takes it, making a show out of eating it, letting juice dribble down his chin and making all sorts of noises.

Wakatoshi leans over the table and licks the sweet drops up, and then Oikawa’s bottom lip, and then he’s tugging Oikawa back into their room— 

—and they both end up late to their first lecture, arriving rumpled and pleased, Oikawa looking otherwise perfect as he heads inside the classroom, charming even their old crotchety professor with an apologetic smile and a few sweet words.

 

It happens again. 

And again.

And _again_.

Wakatoshi doesn’t really care much about it, thinks it’s cute to see Oikawa buried under all those pillows and blankets, hugging whatever garment he’s chosen at the time to himself —whatever Wakatoshi has worn to bed the night before, he’s noticed—, but Oikawa is always noticeably irritable the following day, shooting Wakatoshi these looks that are very reminiscent of all those times they faced off during middle school and high school, and replying to things in a snappy way, quite literally showing his teeth (Iwaizumi says he picked that one particular habit up from one of their underclassmen back in Aoba Johsai).

He knows Oikawa is not angry at him, can remember exactly how _that_ feels, but it still makes him feel off-kilter, not really knowing what to say or do to make him feel better.

 

It takes a month for things to come to a halt.

 

“Do it,” Oikawa gasps, hand hot and heavy over Wakatoshi’s belly. He brackets his hips with his strong, lean legs, his gaze intent, and his lips bitten red. He pushes him down, and Wakatoshi feels the arousal in him spike, stabbing him low in his gut. 

“What do you want me to do?” He asks, not thinking clearly. Oikawa smells strongly of sweat and his cologne, he smells like hard work and like ruined designer fragrance; but even more so, underneath all that and to that part of him that’s less human and more beast, he smells like want, like _heat_.

Oikawa makes a frustrated noise and grinds down on him, hard and unforgiving. His eyes narrow into slits as his hand slips down Wakatoshi’s shorts, calloused fingers wrapping around his cock without any preamble, giving him a long, slow stroke.

“Patience is not one of my many, many virtues,” Oikawa sing-songs, voice going lower and breathy. Wakatoshi exhales a shaky breath and puts his hands on Oikawa’s hips. Oikawa hums in approval, and grinds down on him again, coordinating the down thrust with a harder, faster stroke. 

Oikawa’s thighs on each side of him radiate heat, burning the strip of skin between his shorts and his tank top where their skin touches, and he is heavy on top of him, and strong around him, and Wakatoshi’s suddenly drowning in him, every single sense attuned to Oikawa— to _Tooru_.

The name slips out, barely above a whisper, more hot air than anything else, but Tooru hears it. 

He goes still, and his eyes flutter shut. 

Wakatoshi _loves_ him.

He puts his hands on every inch of skin he can reach, traces the lean muscle on Tooru’s back and follows the lines of his waist to the hipbones, and then moves Tooru’s thighs and lets his fingers inch up until the tips are under the fabric of Tooru’s shorts, until he’s teasing the soft skin of his inner thighs with his thumbs, pressing slightly until Tooru grinds down on him, eyes still closed, chest heaving. 

He takes his hands out of Tooru’s shorts and Tooru makes a frustrated sound, low in his throat, and he opens his eyes to glare at him as the hand on him that’d grown slack tightens back into a fist and gives him a slow, cruel stroke. 

“ _Wakatoshi_ ,” Tooru whispers, rubbing the tip of his index finger on his slit, slick and wet. “Don’t make me wait.”

Wakatoshi wants to ask again, wants to tell him he’ll give it to him, no matter what it is, he’ll give Tooru anything, everything, he’ll—

“You’re so sweet,” Tooru croons, and the sentimental tone of the words is completely at odds with the way he uses his free hand to grab Wakatoshi’s and guide it to his own crotch, and then under as he lifts his hips a little. He makes him touch the spot where he’s starting to get the fabric damp, makes him rub his fingers there until he’s gotten himself wet with Tooru’s scent. 

“You’re so sweet,” Tooru repeats, and it’s soft and cutesy, but the tilt of his mouth tells Wakatoshi there’s some humor in it, “it always made me want to crush you before. That you could say the shit you said and do the shit you do, and still be so _sweet_.”

He opens his mouth to say _sorry_ , brows furrowed even as he keeps his hand going, pleasuring Tooru, making him buck against the heel of his hand, spread his legs a little further; Tooru stops him with a finger to his lips, his mouth softening into a genuine grin.

“I didn’t understand the way you were, Wakatoshi.” His words are firm, even when he takes a break to shiver and shudder when the pads of Wakatoshi’s fingers rub against his hole through the shorts, applying the faintest bit of pressure. “And it drove me mad. I thrived in knowing everything, and you were the unknown, pushing and pulling and doing things that made no sense to me.”

Tooru’s fist loosens again, but Wakatoshi has no time to feel bereft because he’s suddenly moving, pushing Wakatoshi’s hands away and getting his clothes off, clumsy and a little desperate, with his cheeks flushed, the way Wakatoshi never dared to picture when he was younger, and chasing after him, like a dog with a bone— he’s gorgeous and full of contradictions, and he’s— 

— he’s guiding Wakatoshi’s cock until it’s kissing his hole, and Wakatoshi’s suddenly starving for this— is always starving for this deep down, like a little slobbering beast, even if it’s embarrassing to admit— always has his gut clenching and quivering— always wants to touch and kiss, and _have_ — 

“Tooru,” he groans out, strangled, as Tooru sinks on him, trembling as he takes him to the hilt, the hand that had been on him now on his own stomach, as if he could feel him there.

He thrusts.

Tooru’s other hand lands on his chest, fingernails leaving a trail down one pec as he doubles over, forehead almost touching his shoulder as Wakatoshi grabs onto his hips and fucks him, slow and hard, almost leaving no space between them, barely letting him move up.

“Yes,” Tooru exhales, warm against his skin, “yes, this.”

“Okay,” Wakatoshi tells him, and how he gets the word out is beyond him, because he feels barely human, barely coherent as he fills Tooru up, as he feels him so tight around him. 

Tooru snickers, and Wakatoshi’s chest _hurts_ , just burns so bad with the way he _wants_.

“And then—” Tooru starts, and lifts his head from its resting place on Wakatoshi’s shoulder so he can look him in the eye, his own gaze belying his humorous tone, “then I realized you were just an awkward dork. And I fell in love with you.”

Wakatoshi stops midthrust, struck dumb.

He feels himself harden inside Tooru, throbbing, but he can only blink up at Tooru, who’s looking down at him, eyes full of determination— and an undercurrent of something, fear or anxiety or nerves, something that makes Wakatoshi confused, because—

“I love you,” he states. “I thought you knew.” He adds.

Tooru looks pissed at him for about two seconds, eyes narrowing, but finally he just sighs and shakes his head.

“You’re _unbelievable_ ,” he says, but he can’t hide a small, relieved smile.

Wakatoshi hugs him, a hand going to the back of his head, cradling it as their noses bump and he kisses Tooru, all awkward angles, his cock still hard and dragging inside him.

Tooru sighs into the kiss, and moves his hips, making them both gasp.

Tooru smirks into the kiss and moves again, an undulating motion that makes Wakatoshi’s breath stutter.

“You feel so good,” he tells him, and there’s a wicked glint in his eye making Wakatoshi’s gut tremble, “so good inside me, filling me up.”

Wakatoshi can’t help thrusting upwards, his hands going to Tooru’s ass, grabbing at the mounds of flesh to pull him down on him.

“ _Yes._ Just like that,” Tooru hums, and he gets a sly little smile as he grabs his own cock, flushed and leaking all over Wakatoshi. He rubs the head with his thumb, and knowing he’s got Wakatoshi’s eyes on his every single movement he rubs the head against Wakatoshi’s stomach, making a mess on him, getting his sweet, overpowering scent all over him, marking him. 

“You like that, you big pervert,” Tooru mockingly tuts at him, but breaks the façade when Wakatoshi squeezes his cheeks and parts them a little, his thumbs rubbing at the rim of his hole. 

“I do,” he replies in a little grunt, and slides his thumbs slightly inside Tooru, watches him spasm into orgasm.

He keeps fucking him through every little twitch, watches him intently as he comes all over his own hand and over him, eyes tightly shut.

When he opens back his eyes, he looks right into Wakatoshi’s and puts both hands on his chest, getting him all sticky and wet with his come, and not even paying attention to it. Wakatoshi loves when he gets like this, when he loses track of things that would drive him insane out of bed; he loves it when he displays all these things in front of him that nobody else gets to see. 

He bites at his lower lip (and Wakatoshi knows he’ll be hearing about how bad that is for his lips and how he should be grateful that Tooru likes him — _loves him_ — enough to risk chapped lips for him), and theen soothes it with his tongue. 

“I want you to breed me,” he says then, and he sounds the way he looks: absolutely wrecked. “Just like this. I want you to knot me, Wakatoshi.”

It doesn’t take much more for him, after that. He holds onto Tooru’s ass with a grip strong enough to leave marks on the delicate and pale skin and slams up to him, hearing him breathe heavily on top of him, his cock hardening again, untouched.

He feels himself start swelling, and he holds Tooru still. Tooru feels it too, a hand going back to his own stomach, rubbing the skin over its flat planes as Wakatoshi gets fatter inside him, as he fills him up with his knot and his come, hands now firmly splayed over his hips as Tooru sits on his knot, taking every inch of him, every drop. 

One of Tooru’s hands goes down to his cock again, and one of Wakatoshi’s hands joins him there, enveloping it, guiding Tooru’s motions, setting the rhythm, teasing until Tooru’s frustrated and ready to pitch a fit, and then letting him do what he wants, just following Tooru’s pace until he’s coming again, looking blissed out and about ready to pass out from all the stimulation.

He collapses on top of him and makes some noises about being uncomfortable and having practive the following day, and so Wakatoshi maneuvers them until they’re lying on their sides, as comfortable as they’ll be able to be until the swelling goes down. 

Tooru seems content enough and falls asleep within a few minutes.

Wakatoshi watches him until his knot goes down and he can slip out of of him. 

He cleans him up, getting the come out of him with his fingers and watching him wrinkle his nose at that in his sleep, and then shiver and furrow his brows when Wakatoshi wipes him down. 

His face smooths down into a placid expression when Wakatoshi lies back down next to him.

 

He wakes up the next morning to Tooru’s intense gaze. 

It’s not an uncommon occurrence. Wakatoshi thinks it’s endearing. 

“I want them,” Tooru tells him then, eyes still intense and locked on his, nose practically bumping against his. 

His breath smells a little, which tells him that he hasn’t moved since he woke up; the light coming through the blinds tells him it’s midmorning, and they’ve probably missed their first lecture of the day.

He yawns, and Tooru has his nose wrinkled dramatically when he looks back at him.

“You’re disgusting,” he tells him. Then, putting a hand on his chest —the back of it brushing against his chest, making his flesh break out in goosebumps—, he adds, “And I still want them, I think I might’ve taken one too many serves to the back of my head.”

“That was once,” he feels obliged to defend Hinata. Tooru rolls his eyes at him, because he’s still holding a little bit of a grudge over that apparently, even though Hinata had gone around the rest of the day trailing after him like a puppy, and then followed him around the rest of that week, bringing him sport drinks and snacks between classes.

“What do you want?”

Tooru gives him one of those looks that he reserves for particularly difficult freshmen. And Hinata and Kageyama.

“Your kids. I want _your kids_.”

“Oh,” he says, feeling a tingly heat pooling low in his gut. He thinks back to their conversation, back to Tooru’s _maybe_. “We don’t—”

“I know,” Tooru cuts him, rolling his eyes again as he waves the hand he’d put on his chest around, “when have you ever known me to be self-sacrificing?”

Wakatoshi frowns, opens his mouth—

“Don’t answer that, it’s rhetorical.” He cuts him again, cheeks tinged pink. “Thing is: I know we don’t have to. I know even if you could you wouldn’t pressure me into anything I didn’t want, because despite everything I believed back when I was seventeen, you’re actually an amazing person.”

He kisses Tooru then, a short chaste thing that Tooru sighs into before they’re parting again.

“I’ve been— I’ve been thinking about this, and I don’t want them because I’m— because it’s what I’m supposed to want,” Tooru says, their lips brushing against each other’s as he speaks, “I want them because for some reason I’m in love with you and you’re in love with me and we might as well be bonded— we spend our heats together, we live together, we _play_ together, we— we are too young to be parents, and I’m not ready for it right now, and it might be some time till I am, because we have a lot to do, the two of us, and the team too, we have nationals, and then we have to get scouted and go pro— but I think that’s where we are headed, not because of what we are but because of _who_ we are.”

“Okay,” he agrees, and kisses Tooru again; he can’t not do it, can’t help but picture themselves ten years down the line, fifteen years down the line, still together, bonded, making a family for themselves. 

“ _Okay_ ,” Tooru parrots, “that’s all you have to say to my impassioned speech?”

Wakatoshi makes a rumbling noise deep in his throat and kisses Tooru again, crowding him until he has him on his back and can pull the sheets over them both.

He has always been better at talking with his body.

 

(The next time Tooru starts nesting, Wakatoshi joins him.

The next day they have sex, slow and lazy and sleep mussed, and Tooru’s in a good mood over breakfast, humming about how they’re gonna crush their opponents come their next game. 

He licks stray crumbs of milk bread from the corners of Tooru’s lips, smiles when Tooru tells him that he’s gross, and thinks about them ten, fifteen years down the line.

Thinks about how he’s gonna enjoy every second getting there.)

**Author's Note:**

> [ Come and hang out with me on tumblr!](http://memekon.tumblr.com)


End file.
